Late nite shenanigans

It's getting pretty late. Paul and I have been hanging out in the Park Ranger—Brain's "pun" on the Deer Park, I guess—and I'm getting antsy. For what feels like the last 4 hours and 18 minutes Paul has been at an adjacent table gabbling with a twink he's clearly smitten with, and I'm moping at the table he abandoned. Luckily, this is a dream, so I have only to think about the practice of upscale eateries distributing free happy hour munchies, so as to encourage folks to stay and drink more, et voilà, here's some now. Even though it's long past happy hour. 

The onion rings are recently out of the oil, perfectly done, cooled just enough. But the first one I chomp down on makes it clear the onions themselves are not to be trifled with. The skin on the ring is unbreakable, so after a struggle, I end up with all the onion in my mouth and all the breading on the table.

I fucking hate that. Not just the ipso facto food fight but because I am convinced everyone in the joint was watching me lose to an onion. And I'm certain my face is absolutely covered in frying oil and crumbs.

Fuck this, I'm out of here. I perfunctorily napkin myself, stand, and walk the few steps over to the table where Paul and the twink are talking. I tell Paul I'm heading out. He barely acknowledges me, but as I'm turning to go, the twink says, "Seeya, loser." I wheel around and fix him with a look I hope is withering. He shrugs and says, "Why not?" He's playing it like "We're all friends now, why not joke around?" but he really means, "You're a loser, so why not say so?" I respond with, "I can think of one or two reasons." I give Paul exactly 1.5 seconds of the same ocular death ray, then turn again and stalk out of the joint. It is a good flounce.

The environs are American Capitalist Festivity: part Disney park, part Mardi gras, everybody drinking and hollering and drinking. I decide not to go back to the hotel right away; I want to be up on a balcony watching the celebration. I head around the side of the building, up an exterior flight of stairs, and I come to a closed gate, behind which is the second storey balcony, completely empty. I am momentarily confused, trying to remember whether I have heard or read something about the balconies being closed. I try the gate (it is unlocked) just as a voice from behind me says, "Oh, are we going upstairs?"

It is a stranger, but she is apparently being played by Betsy Arledge. She wants to accompany me in my dangerous mission to scout out the balconies. We head up another flight to the third storey balcony, and it quickly becomes apparent why the balconies are closed: they are basically made of hammock material, securely suspended—this isn't a frightening experience, just surprising—but extremely... stretchy. We walk close to the outer railing and the balcony sags down so far we are only a yard or so above the heads of folks walking on the sidewalk. (Where the second storey balcony went in this moment is not clear.) 

"This is fun," says Stranger Betsy, and indeed it is. But of course we are discovered traipsing around off limits and shooed off the balcony by Park Ranger staff.